


Petinence

by Cakeattitude



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Faithful Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Lyrium, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Templars, The Anchor (Dragon Age), The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakeattitude/pseuds/Cakeattitude
Summary: An attempt at a thing where Trevelyan/Dorian are soulmates.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Original Male Character(s), Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Warrior Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Original Male Character(s), Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Pavelyan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	1. After the vigil, the knight's life is changed

_Blessed are the righteous,_

_the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood_

_the Maker's will is written._

Canticle of Benedictions: 4:11

Loud bangs on the frail, wooden door woke him up. His ocean blue eyes shot wide open and he barely had time to inhale a breath of the morning air before he was sitting straight up in bed.

"Herald!" A harsh, familiar voice behind the door exclaimed. It wasn't pleased, "Get up!"

Micah exhaled harshly, before speaking with a trembling, rasping voice. "I-I'm up..." He stumbled on the words and cleared his throat in an attempt to sound more presentable but in vain, "I'm awake." he croaked.

A disgruntled noise was heard before Cassandra walked away from the door, allowing the newly awaken man a moment of peace to gather himself and get ready.

Micah quickly got out of the simple, straightforward bed and stumbled towards an old, wooden table not far from the bed. The rickety, wooden floor was cold and rough against his bare feet. At every step the old boards seemed to creak as though in burden. A jug of water, a large bowl and torn pieces of cloth were placed on the table, accompanied by a rather worn mirror on the wooden wall behind it.

He picked up the jug and poured some of the water into the bowl before splashing it onto his puffy, fatigued face. Crystal-clear, cold water derived from ice; it had slowly melted throughout the dark night. Ice retrieved from the frozen lake by the foot of the tall, snowy mountains surrounding their camp in Haven. In Ostwick, where Micah had been brought up, it would've been a luxury to drink or clean yourself with such pure, untouched water. It would be sacred. An homage to their faith, to purity and to their worth.

Here in Haven, it was all they had.

He looked at himself in the mirror. No matter how pure or sacred the water could _possibly_ have been, it could never wash off the weariness on his face. His blue eyes were framed by his furrowed, worried brows and the dark circles under them. His blonde hair was a mess - his mother would've thrown a fit if she'd seen in what state it was. Short on the sides and volume on top. It had started to grow long enough to cover his eyes, but with some water Micah combed it down a little in an attempt to look decent. An attempt to, at least. 

He looked drained, _heck,_ he felt drained. Everything had happened so fast, he'd hardly been in Haven for three weeks. It felt like years. A lifetime, almost. Walking out of the fade, waking up chained in a dungeon, to see a giant hole in the sky.

Feeling energy pooling out of his left hand, Micah looked down onto the mark. It felt wrong, corrupting. A burden. It didn't belong to him. Every single event that had taken place in the past days had been exhausting, but the thing that was the most draining; that simply was the biggest burden to bear, was that he couldn't remember. He didn't know what it was, or how it got there. Why it was only him, out of thousands, that survived the blast. Why he had forgotten what happened. 

Micah took a deep breath and proceeded to wipe himself dry with the cloth. They hadn't really closed the hole in the sky, the Breach as everyone called it, but it was sealed for now. It won them some time to figure everything out. Them, as in the Inquisition. Oh _boy_ , Micah feared the day his father would not only learn that he survived, but that he also was a part of something like this. It's unworthy, he'd say with disgust. Heresy. Micah still didn't know how to word a letter to send back home.

Micah shook his head in an attempt to shake the uneasy feeling off his chest and started to get dressed. His clothes were modest and simple, to not draw more attention that he needed to. A difficult thing - as he was after all, seen as the Herald of Andraste, but only the thought of that made his insides twist into knots. He wasn't worthy.

A simple armor of leather and steel, a humble shield and a sharp sword and he was ready. Quite the contrast from the ravishing and elegant Templar armor he'd worn until recently, but after what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes he was no longer was part of the Order. He couldn't be, because of the shame he felt aching inside. He didn't remember anything, so he couldn't possibly help to restore what little was left but he also knew he had to stay with the Inquisition.

As he had finished getting dressed, Micah opened the door of the tiny, wooden cabin and stepped out onto the snow. The weather was freezing here in Haven, colder than it'd ever been in Ostwick, despite it being so close to the sea. It was beautiful; how the snow glistened in the sunlight, all the nature surrounding the little encampment. Tall, emerald green pinetrees growing in the shadows of the mountains. What once used to be a lake, but now was frozen solid. He could imagine how it used to look like, a stream of water, pure as crystal, flowing along the edge of the mountain.

As Micah proceeded to walk towards the Chantry on top of the hill, he couldn't help but to notice how the shadows looked different on the snow. They weren't the black, almost haunting dark shadows he was used to see behind the city walls of Ostwick and Markham, instead they were blue. A mysterious, intriguing shade of blue. It had a pure and placid expression, as if it dwells in love and peace. Serene.

It didn't take more than a few moments for the surrounding townspeople and members of the Inquisition to take notice of him making his way through the snow. Micah lowered his glance and hurried his step, trying not to listen to the few words that break the silence that had helplessly fallen around them. Whispers, from one Chantry sister to the other. "There he is, the Herald!" The second sister shushed her, but she still asked silently "Do you really think he was sent by Andraste...?"

Micah tried to shake of the uneasy feeling that ached inside him as he made his way up a flight of stairs, closing in on the Chantry. Andraste, Bride of the Maker. Our Lady Redeemer. The prophet, a slave who rose to greatness and ended up at the Maker's side as his beloved. And now he was _her_ Herald. All the sacredness and sweetness, all that was pure and brave and truthful, seemed to rest in her. The thought of this is alone terrified him. He knew he could never even be close to compare, he wasn't worthy.

The Trevelyan's are known for their political power and for being related to, _well_ , basically everyone by now - but they are also highly esteemed and valued for their piety and faith. Becoming a member of the Order wasn't a choice for Micah, it was decided the day he was born. Well, it was either that or serving the Chantry in itself. Ever since Micah opened his eyes, his father had forced him onto a neverending path of virtue. Heck, he could recite verses from the Canticle of Benedictions before he even could read the words himself. It had always been a struggle towards penitence and righteousness - to be seen as worthy in the eyes of the Maker.

At last, Micah reached the tall, wooden doors of the Chantry. He hesitated for a moment, taking in the beauty of the building standing before him. It seemed to be as old as the Temple was before the explosion at the Conclave, built to last the perils of time with solid chunks of stone. Maybe they were once part of the mountains that shielded them. The Chantry was decorated with delicate, colorful glass windows that depicted various verses of different canticles. By now, Micah knew all of them by heart.

As the Herald opened the solid doors leading to the sanctuary within, a loud creak from the weathered, cast-iron hinges filled the silence as the heavy doors moved.

And it made him feel as if his heart was just as heavy.


	2. Descendant of a dreamer

_The first of the Maker's children,_

_watched across the Veil,_

_And grew jealous of the life_

_They could not feel, could not touch._

_In blackest envy were the demons born._

Canticle of Erudition 2:1

Ah. Ferelden. The ass end of Thedas as some may call it. Dorian couldn't help but to agree; there was _something_ interrupting the air. Oh, and it wasn't the smell, no. The whole atmosphere felt off, like when it has unexpectedly rained on a hot, summer day - and you feel the warmth and humidity fester as your clothes cling to your skin. Lovely. Guess that's what you get when a kingdom is shaped and built around so many… _messy_ events. Calenhad, the Grey Warden rebellion, on and off bickering with the Orlesians and the Blights. Always with the damned Blights. Ferelden history is so _dull._ Dorian sighed and ran his fingers through his dark, soft curls. How did he end up _here_ of all places, again?

A small rustle was heard. Dorian's eyes searched for the source in the darkness, trying to stay very still and to stay hidden. He wasn't known for his abilities in stealth, no, quite the contrary. Being seen, or more particularly, being heard, was something of a speciality of his. But here - in the lonely darkness inside an old Chantry, hidden in the shadows forming around the little amount of moonlight that managed to seep it's way through the worn and massive glass windows; it was pretty easy to stay hidden. The same old glass windows, with the same old motive. After all, Ferelden wasn't really known for its innovative side. Dorian had come here, to Redcliffe, along with his mentor Alexius, but he wasn't sure why - _on all thats holy_ \- they'd travel to such a disappointing place. Boring. Dull. Predictable. But being the one who is always eager to test his theories, to excel with his research, Dorian couldn't do more than happily oblige and wear a big, faked smile while tagging along on the forsakingly long road from Tevinter to Ferelden. Well, a change in scenery is always pleasant, however.

The rustle was heard again, but this time a small, furry shadow ran across the room, it's small claws scratching against the cold, stone floor as it made its way forward; the small pitter-patter of its paws running hastily echoed against the stone walls, and into the vast void above until it reached the ceiling. Of course. The only living thing that Dorian had encountered in the past few days _had_ to be a rat, and even then, the small creature was above hanging out with the oh-so-scary Tevinter mage.

Dorian sank down, leaning onto the stone wall; trying to make the best out of his makeshift resting place. Too bad he wasn't holed up in a Chantry in Val Royeaux, he bet there'd at least be some blankets somewhere. Maybe even a pillow. Dorian pulled at the robe he was wearing, tugging it closer to his body to try to hold onto at least some warmth. 

They'd had an argument, him and Alexius. For years on end, they had theorized together on complex topics relating to the use of or the research on obscure magic. It'd been delightful; trying to conquer the art of a long lost school of magic or just to discover and _perfect_ a spell. To discover and conquer something new, something absolutely wild. However, some aspects are better left untouched and undocumented. There were already too many foolish mages resorting to blood magic to try to solve their tiny problems for Dorians liking. He detested the thought of having his discoveries utterly defiled by a mage with hubris. Its easy enough as it is to become possessed by a demon by just being a careless mage, he really didnt need to have to carry the shame of having given someone the means to ruin the world.

They had fallen out over something similar. Dorian sighed and closed his eyes, crossing his arms. He and Alexius had worked for _years_ trying to theorize and work out how one would be able to travel through time. A dangerous thing, and absolutely thrilling the mere thought that there could be a possibility it'd be feasible. He thought it'd stay that way, as theories, but it turned out Alexius seemed to differ. It was worrying how quickly it had changed from being mere discussions to a frantic search for _anything_ to make it possible. Dorian wasn't able to keep his mouth shut - he had to protest against it. It was like a madness was festering inside Alexius that made him unable to think straight and instead he obsessed over finding the key to unlocking the power of that magic. Alexius stopped eating, refused to sleep and eventually stopped talking. An incoherent mumble would be the most anyone could coax out of him on his better days. The only exception was his most cherished son, Felix; He truly meant the world to Alexius and no sacrifice could ever be too grave if it meant Felix was to be saved from being harmed. Dorian had no ill feelings towards Felix - quite the contrary. Felix was just... too good. Good in both mind and soul, with a big heart as well as an unhealthy amount of empathy. Ugh. Felix was a fricking _saint._

Dorian took a deep breath and felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. He hadn't gotten enough rest lately - sleeping with one eye open is quite troublesome. After their argument, Alexius had rejected Dorian and cast him out. "Curse you, Dorian." He had said, "I am so close to triumph. Your prescence is not required anymore. I will prevail on my own - and reap the sweet fruit of success. Leave. I cannot stand to see you anymore."

Ouch. It was odd. Alexius was a changed man, not at all the mentor Dorian had spent so many years with - learning with and from - and damned be if he'd really think Dorian would leave him to descend into madness out of spite. No, he chose to stay; lingering in the shadows. Watching the story unfold. Somehow, Alexius gained the support of the rebel mages. From somewhere, other Tevinter mages started showing up. But for _what?_ Curious. Dorian was in too deep. It'd be impossible to leave Redcliffe now, althought it'd be even more difficult to stay. Thankfully, he had still been able to keep in touch with Felix. Silently communicating.

Eventually, Dorian let go; allowing the fatigue to take over. Slowly drifting into sleep, he could feel how the Veil thinned out; completely and utterly captivating his mind, turning every thought to a silent whisper. It didn't take long until he was dreaming, his mind captured in the Fade. A place Dorian always could turn to. He felt a connection, but he was also worried; worried he'd never be seen. That he would never be more, than just a lingering shadow in a dream.


	3. 'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams

_Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._

_From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._

_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._

_In my arms lies Eternity._

Canticle of Andraste 14:11

Dorian stood by the shore and watched the dark, dangerous tides. A curious wind ruffled his dark curls. As the sun warmed his cheeks, he took a deep breath and inhaled a mouthful of the salty air. Wind tugged at his silken robes like a child playing tug-of-war.

He’s been here before.

Then he saw him, a boy playing along the incline of the cliffs, picking up smoothed stones that had been polished by the sea. The boy was around ten or so, judging by his ---. But then, a sound was heard over the waves crashing against the cliffs. The boy stiffened. Something in the distance, Dorian glanced over his shoulder.

A voice, a soldier’s, telling the boy to go home, as he's expected to. 

Blah. This part is so dull.

The boy would accompany the soldier back home, after a few moments of hesitation. Dorian followed unwillingly. They had a long walk ahead.

The path lead from the shore, up a hill’s ridge towards a strong castle, formed by great masses of stone slabs. The tall, proud structure must've withstood the test of time, of harmony, suffering and sorrow. Behind iron gates, a gathering of people awaited their arrival.Judgement was written across their faces. How typical of nobles.

The boy stopped before them and dropped his head in shame. A man stepped forward, wearing ornate, embroidered clothes adorned with gold and jewels. He appeared to be the most displeased among the crowd, his cerulean eyes were clouded with discontent. A woman stood at the man’s side, mirroring his displeasure. Yet worry creased her brow as her eyes were sympathetic. Her hair was skillfully braided and fashioned into a bun, in a most exquisite, champagne blonde that matched the young boy's.

The man, who Dorian assumed to be the boy's father at this point, scoffed, and the surrounding crowd waited silently,

"Explain yourself, young man. Tell me why your tutor had to ask for you when you didn't show up for your studies."

Ah. The typical case of a child preferring to play, rather than burying themselves in another ancient book about politics or something equally bland. 

Dorian rolled his eyes, slightly smiling at the thought. He had been the same, when he was the boy's age.

He has seen this before, but this time it's... different. This dream seemed distant. Their voices were distorted, as if they were standing within a dark cave. Even the smallest sound transformed into a hollowed-out echo. 

Dorian watched as the boy opened his mouth, only to hesitate. His words dried out before they even reached his lips, as if he already knew they wouldn't be enough. 

"Fine," his father said, irked, "Let's put an end to these childish games here, and let you return to your studies. Maker knows this has already happened one too many times, it's beneath me and your mother. Unworthy."

The little boy's eyes widened, presumably in chock.

Then, the dream changes, though the god-awful decor does not. As everything settled around them, Dorian noticed he was standing right in front of a statue.

Candles wavered at the statue’s feet. After a closer look, he realized it was a sculpture of a woman. She was draped in a long dress, her arms laid out across her chest as if she carried a child, though her arms were empty. Her gaze was fixated upward and a crown was etched into the stone around her head. What an utterly depressing way to portray Andraste.

Dorian looked down, noticing the boy kneeling at the statue’s feet, with his small, dirty hands joined together in prayer. Hushed words were heard as the boy murmured with his eyes shut. Dorian recognized some of the words, unsure if it is because he has been here before, or if he just has grown accustomed to the Chant of Light by now. Ferelden does that to you, you see. Raving Chantry heretics are everywhere.

A deep voice arose from an elderly man, who held a work of worn out literature open in front of him.

"Trials 1:14." he said, unimpressed. The boy replied promptly, enhancing the loudness of his whispers to a now consultative tone, "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not..."

The boy hesitated and took a deep breath, before he continued with a trembling voice, "N-not be left to... to wander the drifting woods of the Beyond. For there..."

Another pause of silence, panic increasingly altered his expression as every second went by; it felt like minutes, almost even hours, and was excruciating to watch. 

"Is… no darkness in the... the Maker's li-light.." He was interrupted once again, this time by the old man, who united the sheets of the book with a harsh slam. The man sighed, as he shook his head condescendingly,

"What will become of you, my lord?" He questioned, not ceasing his words for an answer as he continued, "What use is there for me to teach you about His ways, when you do not care to remember them? How will you ever carry your family's name in pride - when you cannot ask for His forgiveness?" The old man settled the book by his side, fastening it between his arm and his torso. "He, the Creator; The Wellspring of Life, whom gave us our souls - our dreams - so selflessly?"

The boy clutched his hands tighter, retaining his breath. He didn't say a word. Dorian wondered what exactly went through his mind.

The elderly man scoffed once more, "Repeat. Trials 1:10." The boy took a deep breath, but this time he did not hesitate. He spoke with a voice immersed with emotion; by shame and unworthiness. A voice that now included a newfound confidence, as if a fire had just begun kindling inside of him. 

"Maker, tough the darkness comes upon me. I shall embrace the Light, I shall weather the storm. I shall endure..."

The dream changed again.

Dorian found himself standing in a throne room. A group of soldiers were there, knights encased in steel armor, bearing the symbol of a sword set ablaze. Templars, standing in formation. It was difficult to tell whether it was a ceremony or a trial, judging by the silence looming over the halls. The knights has encircled a group of nobles and in front of them stood a knight who looked rather important. Perhaps he was a leader, but Dorian did not really know too much about Templar hierarchy, and to be honest, he really didn’t care to know. The characteristics of their faces were blurred out of recognition, along with their voices being slurred from the point of comprehension. They were practically inaudible. Dorian treaded closer the group.

The boy was there, standing in front of the knight. Now he was older; in his late teenage years, but not yet an adult. Dorian watched him closely, as the stranger attempted to stand straight, and look high and proud. His eyes told a different tale. It was quite conflicting, really. Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks, although the rest of his face seemed expressionless and empty.

Dorian couldn’t help but to think that the stranger had grown up to be very handsome, but seeing this portion of the dream was what truly tugged at Dorian's heart. He felt the urge to reach out and _do something_. To put a hand on the stranger's shoulder and tell him it's not going to turn out as bad as he expects it to. But he can't see Dorian. He's not even a shadow in this dream of a memory, he can't do anything more than just watch. Watch as the Templars leave, with the stranger by their side. Oh, how it pains him to leave his home.

Dorian has been here before. More or less, it’s always the same dreams. The sequence just somehow tends to get scrambled.

At the shore, by the gates, then praying. An old library. The courtyard. The throne room. At this point, it felt like Dorian knew the dreaming stranger personally, _and oh boy_ , does he have questions. Why did he leave with the Templars? Clearly, it wasn't his own choice. Why does he care so much about his worth? Dorian didn’t know his name, even though the stranger obviously was Fereldan. _By the maker, why?_ Out of all places possible, Dorian felt sorry for such a grand soul to be born here, and into that family.

Well, he couldn’t help but to admit that he had grown quite fond of observing these dreams, whatever their purpose may be. Or perhaps, Dorian was merely fond of him...? It was comforting. Somehow, when the stranger looks at another person he doesn't look at them directly, he looks at their character - their passions, desires and burdens. A stranger with a heavy heart, attempting to earn their worth in the eyes of the Maker, and to help lift the weight off tired shoulders. Maybe, instead of being burdened with having to fill his father's oversized _– and ugly_ \- shoes one day, he’d not hold himself to such impossible expectations. 

They've grown up together. Well, Dorian has grown up with him, in a way.

As Dorian discovered his magic as a boy - to his father's contentment - at first it slowly came to him as images of places he'd never seen before. People he'd never spoken to, names he didn't even know how to pronounce. After quite some time, Dorian saw him. A boy not far from his own age. Compared to Dorian's brunette locks and dark-brown eyes, his blonde hair and blue eyes looked so different. When things had been hard or hectic in Dorian's life, he could always count on the comfort that lies within the strangers dreams.

Sometimes, the dreams would be apparent as the clear sky on a summer’s day. Other times, it wasn’t more than a vague blur. The dreams in where the stranger was happy, were the ones Dorian enjoyed the most. It brought him joy, to watch the stranger read a book by the window in the old library, or see him play in the courtyard of the castle. Following along as the stranger went horseback riding by the farmlands, just after the harvest was completed, or as he traveled to a great city, observing as the vendors display their exotic array of fruits and spices or their shiny, patterned parcels of silk.

They’re small, simple things, yes, but some were fragments Dorian would never get to encounter himself; it was a life so utterly dissimilar to his own. Maybe, the only thing they had in common was the cold, distant relationship with their fathers. The never-ending disappointment, the feeling of never being as good as everyone expects. Ah. Such a lovely feeling, that.

However, sometimes even when clear... the dreams could be out of order, scrambled together, incoherent. It’s more likely to occur with memories one would rather forget. Funny thing how the Fade for once works in your favor. Like the day a boy walked along the Templars in the throne room, and in the ensuing sequence, be a grown adult wearing their armor. Training with them, bearing the yearn for home and the agony of not seeing his loved ones deeply buried in his heart. Dedicated only to their cause. Dorian wondered if the stranger would ever have made those choices by himself.

Fast-paced scenes, some just flashing by. Sword training, reading and rereading the Chant of Light, eating in the mess hall. Trying lyrium for the first time, meeting his first abomination. Walking the halls of a Circle.

Lately, it seemed the stranger had solely been dreaming of the past.

It was very odd, there were numerous gaps. Dorian theorized maybe the stranger had increased his lyrium intake, which would make it... harder for him to see and to follow along the dreams. Some nights, he couldn’t see anything at all. It was only darkness. The Fade is very fluid, as it bends to your concepts and recollections, but it's also very complicated. Some mages can use it to their advantage - to travel the world or to discover memories that has been long since forgotten. It can be used to relive history, to look back at childhood memories or revisit an old love. 

Although Dorian was very fond of dreaming, where he could visualize anything and everything, it mostly both confused and intrigued him. He shouldn't be able to visit someone else's dreams. Well, not without dosing himself up on half the lyrium in a Fereldan Circle, that is. Dorian is a mage, yes, but the stranger was a warrior with no inclinations to any magical abilities whatsoever. He was using lyrium, but it had the same effect on him as it had on every other non-mage, it gave him some form immunity to it. Honestly, everything points to be against making this possible. Dorian had tried to look into it, but honestly, there weren't much on the topic of jumping into a stranger's dreams, even though the stranger turned out to be a beautiful, utterly enchanting one.

During research, Dorian had stumbled upon writing about the Somniari, the dreamers, and apparently that is the collective term of mages who can freely shape the Fade to their will.

Ah, even if the thought of it was tempting, to say the least, Dorian was not a dreamer - he couldn't even begin to comprehend that kind of magic. He has been to the Fade before in his own dreams, yes, but he's never actually crossed the Veil and entered the abyss. He'd not even dare to think that thought. By the Maker, last time someone crossed the Veil they doomed everyone and started the Blights… Or so they say. Almost every race in Thedas enter the Fade in their dreams, well, expect for Dwarves - but to visit someone else's visions were extraordinary. That would require a great deal of lyrium, unless this was… 

It’s indeed something unconventional. It had to be.

Dorian closed his eyes, not being able to focus on the rapidly twisting scenes that play out before him. There was one thing he'd found though, but he wasn't sure of what it really meant.

It was in an old Dalish journal, he first stumbled upon the mentions of someone visiting another's dreams, _Sal' hasem myathal lathbora viran_ . Such a shame his language skills in Elvish were so atrocious. _Sal' hasem_ , he roughly succeeded to translate with the help of their household slaves. Woven soul. The rest he was still unsure of the exact meaning. Something along the lines of following along a path, but to where, he didn't know. It frustrated him, being so close to an answer, but alas, he tried not to fret.

Looking into the meaning of woven soul, he found multiple theories from different origins, mostly Elven and Tevinter, that a connection could form amid two people; that their souls derive from a single origin that somehow got divided into two. Two flames from the same fire. Ordinarily, they go their separate ways reincarnating countless times. At last, they will find each other and reunite and spend eternity together. Blah, it's was such a romantic cliché it made Dorian feel sick.

However, some Dalish clans still believe in this. Once a youngling comes of age, they choose someone to connect with and stay by their side for life. An utterly disparate set of procedures to what Dorian has undergone in Tevinter, where such affairs almost always are arranged. Heck, if Dorian would've been docile as a damn sheep, he'd probably already be married off to a woman bearing a _perfect_ name, while they were living a _perfect_ life, the two of them having _perfect_ children, whom own day would become a _perfect_ mage. Blah, blah, blah. It's so entirely tedious.

The dream stopped changing. This one seemed to stay, and now, everything fell silent. This was new, and it perked Dorian's interests. He looked up, to see the stranger standing beside him.

They were standing on a hill, looking out over the scenery. A frozen lake. Tall, snowy mountains sheltering them. Snow glimmering in the sun. Tall, green pines coloring the otherwise white and grey palette. And above them, the sky was scarred. Blue, clear sky was tangled up with dark, ominous clouds and a dynamic, breathing green light. Dorian held his breath in shock.

Maker's breath.

It was terrifying, as if the Fade was peaking through the gap and soared within the sky. As if he was looking directly into the abyss.

The stranger alternated his step and turned to look at Dorian. Blue eyes, overflowing with uncertainty, distress and inner turmoil, met Dorian’s own gaze. He instantly lost himself in their depth and emotion, bleeding out of the stranger’s own until he realized.

For the first time, he has been seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Strabalion for helping me out with this chapter! I'm so grateful for your help. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is still very much a work-in-progress, do feel free to share your opinions - good and bad!


End file.
